


Beautiful

by Dangerousnotbroken



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Kisses, Fluff, Homophobic Language, M/M, Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:05:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4985833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester doesn't take kindly to being called "pretty."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. Just something I couldn't get out of my brain on a lazy morning.

The first time someone called Dean Winchester “pretty”, it was in a dive bar in a shitty little town on the Nebraska border. They’d stopped in town to hustle some pool and replenish their cash reserves on the way to points west, and since it was the only game in town, it would have to do. Dean hadn’t even picked a mark yet. He and Sam sat at a table drinking a few rounds, getting a feel for the nice folks drinking their pay checks away on that Friday night. There were a couple guys Dean thought he could pull a fast one on, guys that could probably be counted on to buy the sway in Dean’s step and the too-wide smile as signs that he was easy pickings. Lose a few rounds in spectacular fashion, beg for a chance to earn his money back, double or nothin’, and wipe the floor with them. It was pretty much the oldest trick in the book, but there were always going to be people falling for it. Just had to find the right ones.

Dean made his way to the bar to order another round; beer for Sam, soda for himself. The ruse would be useless if Dean was drunk enough to actually impact his reflexes. He’d already had a few that night and besides, if things went south it would mean a quick getaway. Last thing Dean needed was to wrap his baby around a pole and have to explain the arsenal in the trunk. While he waited for the bartender, a gruff local with military tattoos snaking up his bare forearms and a hard eye, to pour his order, one of the guys he’d been eyeing up as a potential mark made his way to the bar, leaning his thick arms on the counter and grunting a laugh around a toothpick.

“Somethin’ funny?” Dean asked him, eyeing the guy sideways. Dean could probably take him down if that’s where this was headed, and lord does he wish that he lived a life where that wasn’t a valid thing for him to be worrying about but hey, you play the hand you’re dealt, right?

“Just tryin’ to figure out which one of you fuckin pansies is the girl,” the guy snorted, drawing himself up to his full height which was still at least three or four inches shorter than Dean. “See I figure,” he continues, doing his best to loom despite the height difference, “that you’re the pretty one, so you’re probably the one bending over like a little bitch.”

“That’s my brother, you inbred fucking douchebag,” Dean wants to shout back, but he’s stopped by a hand on his shoulder, and he’s out of the bar before anything else has a chance to happen.

Even all these years later, Dean can’t decide if it’s a good thing that Sam saw the whole situation escalating and arrived just in time to drag his brother out of what would have likely been a spectacular fight. A broken eye socket is still probably better than that fucker deserved. Not getting his own face messed up in the process didn’t make the words sting any less. His _pretty_ face.

Dean heard the word more times than he cared to count in years after that. Sometimes it was with the same violent derision as the first time he heard it. More frequently than he’d like by far. He makes a point to rearrange the face of anyone who comes at him like that, and if he comes back to whatever motel they’re in with blood on his knuckles and fire in his eyes, Sam has learned not to ask questions. Sometimes they use it to discount him. Other hunters, local cops who don’t like the “FBI” moving in on their cases, next of kin he’s interrogating, douchebags in bars who think they’ve got a claim on whatever girl Dean’s been chatting up.

Sometimes it’s not cruel at all. Sometimes it’s flattery. There have been a couple of cases that put Dean in environments he wasn’t particularly familiar with; gay bars and the like, and once or twice he’s heard the word “pretty” on the lips of a guy that could bear the descriptor himself. Sometimes they call him pretty because they want to get closer. His lips are pretty and they want to kiss him. His eyes are pretty and they’d love to stare longingly into them and can they buy him a drink? And Dean always stammers and flushes as he fends off those advances. It has to look like he’s offended but really more than anything he’s confused, because occasionally he finds himself thinking it might not be so bad if he lets the tanned guy with the too-tight t-shirt buy him a drink. Might learn something about the case they’re working, right?

He never does though, and Sam just nods sharply when he comes back to the motel and says he came up bust. The bar was a long shot lead anyway.

And he’s pretty sure Abaddon called him pretty once, with her cruel smile and sharp eyes. She looked at Dean like a toy, a plaything to be used up and discarded when she was through. She threatened to flay the tattoo right off his chest and wear him out for a night on the town, and Dean can’t even begin to imagine what horrors he might find at having a knight of hell inside his brain, but he’s fairly certain none of them could be described as “pretty.”

The first time Castiel kisses Dean, it’s in an orange and green motel room not too far from where they first met. It’s only slightly less derelict than the barn in Pontiac, but it keeps the rain out and somehow there’s Wi-Fi. It’s a short thing, lacking the intensity a first kiss should have when it’s been this many years in the making. Sam’s just stepped out to the vending machine though so it’s not like there’s an abundance of time. Cas leans in, middle of whatever Dean was talking about, and brushes his dry lips against Dean’s, wet because he licks them almost obsessively when he’s nervous. It’s quick and chaste, over before Dean has a chance to catch up and slide his tongue along the seam of Cas’ lips to take the kiss deeper. Cas stays right in his space though, one hand on his shoulder. The other comes up to cradle the side of Dean’s face and he drags the pad of his thumb along Dean’s lower lip. He looks like he wants another kiss. Dean’s so ready to oblige. Instead Cas just stares at him, mapping out the details of his face, and in the split second before he flits away to do whatever angels do, he looks at Dean with wonder in his eyes and whispers a single word.

“Beautiful.”

He’ll say it again, a multitude of times. The next time they kiss, there’s no rush, and it doesn’t go any further than a rather frenzied make-out in the back of the Impala but there’s that word again, soft on Castiel’s lips. The little moonlight that makes its way in through the windows leaves the two of them in heavy shadow but Cas still says it, over and over between kisses, like he’s begging Dean to accept it. Dean doesn’t say a word in reply, just drags Cas’ mouth back down to meet his own, because kissing is easier than talking.

He says it the first time they have sex. Dean usually prefers to call it “fucking,” but that’s definitely not what this is. It’s probably not technically “making love,” either, but Dean wouldn’t call it that even if it was. It’s slow and tender and careful, so new and charged with emotions they still haven’t addressed out loud. They lie together in the afterglow, sweat making their skin shine in the lamplight, a knot of limbs they could untangle easily if there was even the slightest inclination. Cas moves only to roll himself up and perch above Dean. The look in his eyes says all the things Dean can’t put word to right now. Cas can’t say them either, but he wraps the entire lot up in a single adjective, one with more power than a lone word has any right to.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs before kissing Dean again, silencing any protestation that might follow. Cas used that word again during, Dean remembers almost as an afterthought. He whispered it softly as Dean came apart, succumbing to the attentions of hands and mouth unpracticed but no less passionate for it. He spoke it firmly when Dean tried to avert his eyes out of shame or fear or whatever other misplaced emotion guided his actions. He breathed it with reverence when he sank into Dean, bringing them as close together as any two bodies can be, and he repeated it like a litany when Dean stiffened and cried out. He kissed it into Dean’s skin and sang it for his ears and manifested it in every touch.

It’s practically synonymous with the other word; the one that makes his skin crawl, the one hurled at him like a weapon and wielded like a threat and dangled like a promise. They’re basically the same thing, but the way Castiel says “beautiful” is nothing like the way anyone has ever called him pretty. Cas says it with awe and reverence. He’s not just talking about Dean’s face (though he certainly does appreciate the way Dean looks, make no mistake), he’s talking about Dean’s soul. He looks at Dean like he’s every good thing this world has to offer, and he pours all of that into this one solitary word. Dean will never brook being called pretty, but if Cas is going to insist on telling him he’s beautiful, Dean will just have to learn to listen.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [Tumblr!](http://shennanigoats.tumblr.com)


End file.
